WOMAN ON THE ROCKS

digital art: ralph murre

WOMAN ON THE ROCKS

by John L. Campbell

A cool Caribbean breeze sweeps white sand across the veranda

at a villa overlooking the rugged rocks bordering the Atlantic.

On my left, a purple profile of Puerto Rico cowers under clouds,

and north, the tiny island of Culebra floats like a gray battle ship.

From my perch on the isle of Vieques I sip hot coffee and watch

a woman fish from a rock the size and shape of Moby Dick.

She's lean, muscular and wiry like a sprinter, a soccer player,

a tall, willowy Olympian in short-shorts, long legs and naked feet.

A tattoo of a purple-blue dragon peeks from her undershirt,

white against her tan skin shimmering as she twirls

a fishing line like a lasso glistening in the sun, a cowgirl,

arms akimbo, trying to cut the lead stallion from the herd.

She tosses the line and it sails up and out like a snake in flight,

the weight, then the bait, kiss the turquoise surf and sink deep.

She taps a cigarette from a pack, cups her hand and lights up

with the skill of a seaman on deck with the wind in her face.

Her smoke drifts upward, I inhale her breath, its tobacco aroma.

Who are you woman, where do you live, with whom do you sleep?

Perhaps we could meet between cinco y siete behind the stacks

in the library, or in a booth behind palms at Fat Jack’s Café?

Motionless, she watches the water, a bucket her only companion.

I want to climb down to those rocks, ask what she's using for bait,

ask what fish she’s caught, would she welcome a man's company?

                   

~ first published in Free Verse

HAND-ME-DOWNS

artwork: ralph murre

HAND-ME-DOWNS
by John L. Campbell

Dead men’s clothes haunt my closet,
Dick’s sport coat, Paul’s slacks,
and Grant’s sweaters, Art’s high
winter boots hang in the garage.
Widows never give me anything,
they offer to my wife, a go-between,
with words like, Maybe this’ll fit.

I often wear a blue whachamacallit,
a pullover with half-zipper front,
once worn by my friend, Grant.
He didn’t give it to me,
his widow gave it to my wife,
and my wife said, Try this on,
and I asked, Where’d you get this?
And she said, It was Grant’s – nice
fit, so I wear it while walking,
which makes me think of Grant.

The day he died, I crept out, left
his room, unable to watch him
shake, tossing in bed, out of it,
trying his best to die with dignity,
me, angry, cursing sotto voce,
asking if God was on holiday,
and our wives chatted on and on,
as though we were just visiting.

~ first published in PLAINSONGS